


The Mockingbird

by Ally_Cross



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 19:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10883826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ally_Cross/pseuds/Ally_Cross
Summary: The power of music and the power of compassion





	The Mockingbird

**Author's Note:**

> Since this is an original work, I came up with the characters and scenario, so please do not repost or share without my permission.

My father had two hobbies he loved, music and bird watching. Granted, those may sound like a strange combination, but these were what made his eyes shine with glee and spark with determination. They evolved from being mundane activities to passions that displayed his resolve and enthusiasm, characteristics that inspired me and made me idolize him.

First and foremost, my father was a musician. Though he never possessed any natural talent, his love and drive for music was what made him exceptional. Hours dedicated to practice resulted in blisters and calluses on his hands and the level of skill that everyone envied and adored. Any instrument, any piece, he could play with enough practice, no matter the difficulty. He would often tell me while tuning with his guitar, "Remember this. Anyone can create a cacophony of jumbled sounds, but that means nothing but an earache. Only a person with true passion and skill can weave sounds and notes into something beautiful, then you have something powerful. You could have a weapon to speak out against injustices or you could have something that can bring a touch of happiness to a bleak day." Then, he would lean back, strum the now-tuned guitar once, and finish. "To me, music is what paints an otherwise dark world with bright and vivid color."

This is what my father taught me long ago. Of course, being young, I never fully understood what he was trying to tell me. Nevertheless, his love and passion for music was infectious and soon, I fell in love with it as well, trying to follow in his footsteps. Every spare hour went into perfecting my musical ability, whether singing or playing instruments. Through this, I could see the bright colors my father saw, the vibrant palette that music painted the world with.

The same could not be said for his second hobby, bird watching. I never understood his love for birds, especially mockingbirds. To me, they were irritating, especially when they decided that early morning was the best time to chirp out their shrill songs. To him, they were something to learn from. Their ability to instinctively sing out flawless melodies was something he truly admired. I thought it was strange, but I let it be, smiling politely whenever he would gush about his birds. It would not be until I was much older that I would finally understand.

One day when I was five, my parents and I went for a walk in the nearby park. It was a warm autumn day and the flame colored leaves were twirling in the breeze. I was walking down the paved road, enjoying myself when suddenly, I heard a faint noise like something crying out for help. Quickly, I followed the sound until I found its source; a small mockingbird who had broken its wing and was desperately singing out its shrill song. Though the noise sent an uncomfortable shiver down my spine, I couldn't help but take pity on the poor thing. I gently cradled the poor bird in my cupped hands and ran to my parents. We returned home and I helped nurse the mockingbird back to health. When it was time to release it, I felt sad that it had to go. However, I was pleased that the mockingbird was healthy and free again.

As time passed, I forgot about the mockingbird and my life went on. I thrived in my musical pursuits with my father and he couldn't have been more proud of me. Then, the accident happened. In an instant, my father's song was silenced forever. My world became monotone and the once vivid colors faded into black and white. Nothing could shake me out of this depression, not my mother, not my friends, and certainly not music. Even looking at the instruments was too painful and singing only brought about a deep sadness.

One day, I was sitting in my room, staring blankly at the wall as the heavy rain fell against the windows. Suddenly, I heard a tapping noise. I looked and outside my window was a mockingbird, trying to find shelter. I couldn't help but feel some irritation. Why couldn't the world just leave me alone? Nevertheless, I walked over to the window and opened it. The little bird flew in swiftly, simultaneously shaking rainwater from its feathers. At first, I was annoyed that the bird had slightly dampened me, but then I realized that it was flying towards me, unafraid. Tentatively, I stuck out my pointer finger and the mockingbird landed gracefully on it. A memory buried deep within my mind slowly surfaced as I examined the little bird. “Could this be the same bird I nursed back to health so long ago?” I thought. Suddenly, the bird opened its beak and began to sing. The melody was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard and it began to lift my spirits. The corners of my mouth slowly curled into a smile and for the first time in what seemed like a century, color returned to my monochrome world. The mockingbird sang for a few more minutes and then fell silent. Before I could comprehend why, it flew off my finger toward the window where brilliant sunlight was pouring in. Reluctantly, I opened the window and the bird immediately flew off, eventually becoming a dark dot against the blue sky. All of a sudden, my mother walked in. She noticed my smile and asked what had happened. I simply replied, “An old friend came to visit.”

I never saw the mockingbird again, but there was something about its song that deeply resonated within me. It reminded me of the music my father used to make and the joy he found whenever he listened to his birds. Ultimately, it gave me the courage to find music again. Now, whenever I hear birdsong, I smile because even though my father is gone, I can still hear his music in the echoes of their melody.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first submission on this site, so I'm excited for people to finally read my work. Thanks for reading! Leave me a comment or kudos :D Any constructive criticism is welcome!


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